


The notebook was pink too

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 05:21:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(And sometimes, at night, you can hear her calling something out into the void. When that happens, you can hear her sob for hours, and you never go to her. You sit by the door, exhausted and wishing you could hold her.)<br/>Rose is in love with someone, and she's not really sure how to proceed, until she does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The notebook was pink too

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as an apology and it just spiraled out of control  
> maybe one day I'll write the porn sequel

Rose didn't mean to fall  _in_  love with her mother, and in a way, she still hasn't. Roxy isn't anything like the woman Rose remembers. She's softer, for one thing, and she speaks her mind.

Your mother never really spoke to you; your interactions were mostly nonverbal and sometimes not even face-to-face.

In contrast, Roxy is ever present. She's lounging in the kitchen and talking to Dirk, she's joking around with Terezi, she's getting to know everyone,  she's baking with Jane. (And sometimes, at night, you can hear her calling something out into the void. When that happens, you can hear her sob for hours, and you never go to her. You sit by the door, exhausted and wishing you could hold her.)

The Seer of Light has no business with the Rouge of Void.

You think that she's disappointed in you. Hell, you would be. She grew up with tales of a mother who could actually fight, who could surf down a waterfall on a dead body. All you can do is knit poor quality laptop cozies. 

"Now you know how I feel," Kanaya says, when you confide in her. "Ancestors are so daunting- they've done so much, they're so much older- I don't blame you for being frightened."

You look at her, about to protests, but she cuts you off. 

"But I'm not saying that's a excuse. You need to talk to her, Rose, or she'll never know. As I recall you've said to nearly everyone on this rock, at one time or another, communication is the key to success."

So you do, or at least, you attempt to.

"Hello," you say, keeping your voice calm. Roxy looks up, half smiling, from the book she's reading. An empty margarita glass sits on the table beside her.

"Hey, Rosey," she giggles, and you feel your face grow warm. "What's up, come on, pull up a chair, where's my hosp-hospi- manners," she removes her feet from the chair opposite her and you sit, trying desperately not to show nerves.

“What’re you reading?” you inquire, politely. Roxy shows you the cover, C _omplacency of the Learned._

“You wrote it,” she says, then makes a face. “I mean my, uh, mom wrote it.”

“Oh.”

“It’s really good, even if a bit, uh, pretentious.” She laughs, and you find yourself smiling. “You could borrow it later if ya wanted,” she winks and you’re sure your face is completely red. She laughs even harder.

“I’d like that,” you admit, looking down.

“I’d like to read some of your stuff too- don’t look at me like that, Rosey, I see you scribblin in that little notebook,” she continues, looking hopeful.

“I,” you stutter, completely surprised at how easily she makes you feel like a lovestruck moron. “Yes, that would be okay,” you continue, wincing internally. She watches you easily, making you feel uncomfortably exposed and a lot flustered.

“Lalonde,” Roxy begins, and giggles. You smile too; it’s weird, not being the only one with that last name. You can’t say you mind, really; at least it makes the whole ‘writing your name with their last name crush phenomenon’ pretty redundant. “Could you do me a huge favor?” She stretches the u in huge, fluttering her eyelashes. You know she’s only kidding around, but your heart doesn't and still skips a beat.

“Of course,” you say, a little too quickly.

“Could you bring me something to read later tonight? I’ve gotta dash- Dirk’s having a cow, you know how them Striders are, and I gotta play damage control,” she shows you the PDA John prototyped for her, with orange writing going haywire across the screen.

“Sure, I’d love to,” you say. She gives you a wink and stands up. When she leaves, she leaves  _Complacency_ with you. You pick it up, running your fingers up and down the well-worn spine.

You spend the rest of the day going through your notebooks, trying to decide what she’d like. In the end, you cannot decide, so you whip out your pen and begin to write.

At eight o’clock (according to the hall clock that could be completely inaccurate) you take one of your notebooks to her room. There’s a note pinned to her door that instructs anyone one who cares to know (your name was written in parenthesis) that Roxy Lalonde is outside, waiting for them. You know exactly where, too, from those long nights.

“Hey there,” she greets you, hastily wiping at her eyes when you find her, clutching the book with white knuckles.

“Hello, Roxy,” you reply, sitting next to her and relishing the way her name rolls off your tongue. “I, uh,” you want to ask if she’s alright, but you worry it might be too forward. Dear lord, you’re beginning to sound like Zahhak, on of the dead trolls you met in a dream bubble; it’s very discouraging. 

“It’s fine, Rosey,” Roxy smiles at you; your heart hammers so loud she can probably hear it. “Just thinking 'bout an old friend,” she spots the notebook in your hands. “Oh! Did ya bring me the goods?”

“Yes, I thought you’d like this one,” you flip the page open. It’s dedicated to her on the opposite page in elegant purple writing. You watch her eyes widen in surprise, and notice with a sort of haphazard thought, that her light hair against such dark skin is really and truly entrancing in this light. She looks almost unreal; a fairytale girl full of heart and love. You watch her read the story, a soft smile appearing on her lips just like before; this is going far better than you expected.

When she’s done, she closes the notebook and looks over at you.

“May I keep it?” she whispers, cradling the notebook to her chest.   
You nod, not trusting your voice;  _she liked it._

“Can I, uh,” she blushes. Your mouth goes dry. “Can I kiss you too, Rosey?”

You nod again.

It was a bit of a cliché story, really. A young girl named Rhonda, who can talk to cats and drinks a bit more than is good for her, meets another girl named Rowena, who’s a witch. They have a smattering of friends with whom they share the daunting task of saving the world. In the end, they fall in love.

Roxy fits against you perfectly, warm and soft in all the right places. You hold her gently, relishing the perfection of her lips. You know she can feel your heartbeat; you can feel hers.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, when she pulls away, though you’re not sure what for.

Roxy just laughs, and pulls you back to her, soft lips sliding across yours.

She doesn't cry again that night, curled around you in the darkness.

No, you didn't fall in love with your mother; you fell in love with Roxy Lalonde, who is so much better.

 


End file.
